


Possible (19/39?)

by Mexta



Series: Possible [19]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post-412
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:55:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey asks Ian what it's like</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possible (19/39?)

As they got ready for bed that night, Mickey couldn’t stop himself from asking. He didn’t want to; he feared it would make things worse. But he had to know. “So … ” he said as he pulled the curtains shut, his back to Ian. “You feelin’ better now?”

He turned toward the bed. To his relief, Ian hadn’t immediately assumed that closed-off, blank expression Mickey hated so much. 

"I don’t know," Ian said. He lay on his back on the bed, watching Mickey. "Maybe. Not really."

"You seem better. Kinda."

"Fake it till you make it," Ian said matter-of-factly. He saw Mickey’s look and added, "That’s what they tell you in therapy."

Mickey halted with his arms over his head, mid shirt removal. “In _therapy_?” He finished yanking off the shirt and tossed it in a corner. “What - you pay attention to that shit?”

"Not all of it." Ian sounded mild. "Lotsa talk. Some of it makes sense."

"Oh yeah?" Mickey stepped out of his pants and crawled up the bed in his shorts. "What’s’at mean? Fakin’ it?"

Ian shrugged. “They say sometimes if you act like you’re doing okay even when you’re not, then … maybe eventually you will.”

Mickey considered that as he took a cigarette from the pack on the headboard. “So you were just faking it today?”

"I wasn’t faking it with you, Mickey."

Somehow that was reassuring. Mickey handed over the cigarette and watched the end of it glow in the dark as Ian dragged on it. 

"Ay," he asked after a minute.

Ian turned his head slightly. “Yeah.”

"What … does it feel like? When you’re not faking it?"

For a while Ian didn’t answer, and they lay beside each other in silence on the bed. 

"I can’t explain," Ian said finally.

"Like … nothing is any use? Everything feels fucked up?" Mickey thought he knew that feeling.

"No … " Ian’s voice seemed to trail away. Then he said, "Like nothing. It feels like … nothing’s there."

Mickey tried to imagine that, and for a second maybe he almost he did, like a glimmer in the depths of his mind, and a tiny tremor ran through his body.

But Ian was speaking more lightly now. “That was my homework from yesterday.”

"What was?"

"To feel something. She told me to do something that would make me feel … anything."

Mickey leaned up on an elbow and stared down at Ian. After a second he understood. “The kid?”

"Yeah. A baby. I thought, how could I hold a baby and feel nothing?"

"So did you?"

Even in the darkness Ian’s faint smile was visible. “It felt — good.”

Mickey dropped onto his back. “But … Yevgeny?” he said, finally.

"He’s your kid, Mick."

They lay in silence again; Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. Then he became aware that Ian was staring at him. 

"Strange," Ian said. "Being here with you. I remember when that was … all I wanted. To be with you — like this — not having to hide it."

It was stupid to ask, to speak the obvious. But Mickey couldn’t stop himself. “So? Now you have it?”

"It’s still good. I like it." Ian hesitated. "It’s just that … it doesn’t matter as much as I thought it would."

"It doesn’t matter?"

"Thought it would make all the difference. But it doesn’t. I’m still the same inside."

"When you kissed me," Mickey said suddenly. "Did you feel that?"

Ian didn’t respond right away. “Not as much as I used to.”

Mickey sat up, flinging the covers off abruptly. He had a sudden urge to get up, leave, put his clothes on, go sleep on the couch. “You want me to — “

"No." Ian put a hand on his arm. "Don’t go. I want you here. It’s just that … that’s why I don’t want to fool around with you yet. You know? Want to wait till I can … really feel it."

Mickey paused with his legs still swinging over the side of the bed.

"The thing is … " Ian’s voice went on, out of the darkness behind him. "They want me to feel things. But when I do … I can’t feel one thing without all the others."

"What others?"

"Everything. Like, how I fucked up my life. How I lost everything I ever wanted. I can’t join the army again; just a matter of time till I go to jail." Ian’s voice had lost its animation, and grown flat and lifeless again. "Now we know I’m just like my mom. Always gonna be messed up. Never getting out of here. Everything I thought I’d figured out in my life — useless now."

For a fleeting moment Mickey wondered if that was why he could never stand to think about his own future. Thinking about it made all those other parts of his life unavoidable.

But his life really was fucked up. Ian was a Gallagher. For them, all things were possible.

"It’s not useless," he said, almost angrily. "It’s just — you just know more now. Jesus, Gallagher. You ain’t even graduated yet. Why would ya think everything’s over already?”

"Used to have a plan," Ian said. "I had a reason to graduate. When I finished school I could apply for Westpoint. When that was done I could be an officer. Had it all worked out. Itwas gonna be my ticket out of here. I could have a good life, send money back to my family. Maybe help the little ones or something." He leaned back to drop the cigarette butt in an empty bottle. "Now all I got waiting for me is jail, a dishonourable discharge, and a record."

"That never seemed to bother you when you were dancing at the Chicken Hawk or whatever the fuck that place was called."

"You never heard of denial?"

"But you had ideas, lots of ‘em. Plans."

"It’s called mania, Mickey. What did you think?" Ian reached out for something on the shelf behind the mattress. "You ever look at this?" He shook the object in his hand. "My notebook. I went through it the other day. It’s like I was writing in a different language. Total gibberish."

Even after all this time, Mickey realized, he’d never stopped thinking of Ian as the smart one, the one with his life together. Could it really be that Ian Gallagher had no better idea what he was doing than Mickey Milkovich?

"Then fuck it," Mickey said suddenly. He yanked the notebook out of Ian’s hand and tossed it across the room. "Plans are fucking overrated. I got a business, I got an income. What d’ya need to worry for?"

Ian turned toward him in the dark, and Mickey already knew what he was going to say. “I’m not living off you —”

"So don’t. Do your own thing — whenever you decide what it is. You don’t gotta figure everything out right now. You’re — what, eighteen? Fuck it. Quit worrying about your family, the future, all that shit. No wonder you’re depressed. Try livin’ for yourself for a while. Have fun. Live like a teenager."

Ian gave a laugh. “Yeah, that’s it. Why didn’t I think of that before? Cured!” He pushed himself up and leaned over Mickey. “It’s not depression, Mickey. It’s bipolar disorder. You don’t fix it by _having fun_.”

"I’m not sayin’ that." Mickey paused for a second to think about what he did mean. "I’m not talking about your bipolar-whatever shit. That’s just somethin’ you gotta live with. I’m talking about all the other shit you’re worrying about all the time." He put a hand on Ian’s bare chest. "Just … let someone else deal with that, man. You don’t have to carry it all around."

"Not someone else that’s going to jail. It’s me."

"They haven’t found you yet. And they can’t be lookin’ very hard if they didn’t find you at home. You were a minor anyway. Shouldn’t even have been able to sign up. Let them explain why they took a seventeen-year-old in the army." When Ian didn’t respond, Mickey pressed his point. "Which is probably why no one’s looking. What was that they said — fake it till you make it? Maybe you can fake bein’ a kid that ain’t worried about supporting his whole family."

 _And maybe after that_ , Mickey thought, as Ian turned over and shut his eyes, _you can fake being a gay dude that likes banging his boyfriend_.


End file.
